To Whom it May Concern
by nothingSpectacular
Summary: AU to season 2 finale. Tim makes a wish. Kate lives and everything changes.
1. Chapter 1

Timothy remembered a girl.

He was standing at an embankment, the lights of Chesapeake illuminating his figure. The river was wide, he couldn't remember the name, just saw the riverfront speckled with a few ships. A bridge stood in his periphery, and if he turned his head he would probably recognize it. Where he was didn't matter though.

He was remembering a girl. There had been a river there, not a river though, a stream. There had been woods. Tim had been twelve.

Tilting his head, Tim sighed and tried to zone out the happy murmur of chatter behind him. It was just before Christmas and lights were spread throughout the park, a concert was going on just down the way in the waterfront's outdoor amphitheater. People were happy.

Tim remembered that the girl had been just a little younger than him, or at least smaller, and she'd had the strangest face. Sharp little cheekbones with a small chin. Her eyes were an exotic sea green, too bright to be real, and between them had been an upturned nose. She'd been like a little fairy.

Tim chuckled, she very well may have been a fairy from what she'd said to him that day. He huffed, ignoring the chill creeping past his thick wool coat. His gloves had been forgotten in the car and the tips of his fingers were a bright red.

"_One wish."_

That's what she had said, giggling right after. He vaguely remembered his reason for being out in the woods. It had been a fight between his parents, about him, as always. What to do with him, if he remembered right, and the disappointment he'd always produced. Stand tall, be strong, don't take hits, take hits, don't talk back, scream back at them. His father had been a confusing mish mash of oxymorons. His mind at that age had been unable to understand the finer details and he'd been left feeling overwhelmingly underqualified to be a McGee, or to even be born.

He'd run outside, chased his shadow into the nearby woods, pretending he couldn't hear his mother shouting after him to come back. She wasn't much better, didn't understand how her little boy wasn't just like the strong man she'd married. Boys existed in a narrow category, and Timothy had never fit into hers.

The tune of 'We Wish You a Merry Christmas' slowly grew, a group of walking carolers passing by. Kate had always liked that song, whistling it the previous year almost every day in the month before Christmas. She'd proudly claimed to have sung in a choir as a youth.

Tony had made a crack about Tim looking like an altar boy, no doubt also the lead soprano in the church choir. Tim of course had been raised a methodist, loosely, he couldn't recall having ever set foot in a Catholic church.

Of course, that was before. Kate was gone now.

Tim flexed his fingers, the feeling in them slowly seeping away. The metal rail felt important though, like something he was supposed to hold onto.

He was remembering though, the girl, that night. He'd run and run, tears coursing down his cheeks as he had tried to forget the words. 'Tim will change, he'll get stronger, he'll be better'. His mother had always advocated for him, saying he would change, as if magically overnight.

At some point Tim had stumbled, fallen, and gone head over heels down a hill. Sobbing, and now hurting, he'd opened his eyes to see a little stream. It was bright, the moon overhead shining through the branches. Tim had felt very hopeless, twelve years old and wondering why he'd been born if he wasn't good enough for his family.

He'd seen a girl then, on the ground and glaring death at her leg. She'd been wearing a white dress which seemed to be made of some living being rather than woven cloth. She looked like a lily.

Tim had carefully approached her. She had bared her teeth, revealing oddly sharp canines. She had growled, looking more like a wild animal than a girl. That was when he'd seen the animal trap which was enclosed around her ankle. It hadn't actually injured her, but the way it was shut perfectly encircled her foot and made escape impossible.

"A-are you hurt?" Tim had stuttered softly, not taking notice of his own scrapes and bruises.

The girl's eyes had narrowed, fox like eyes judging him. Then she had grinned, lips pulling back.

"I'm ssstuck!"

She had flared her nostrils and tossed her head, hands smacking against the ground. Tim had looked on in worry, eyes drawn to the white lily skin trapped by the dark, rusted metal. He had recognized it, knew how it worked, the physics behind the metal contraption and how to release it.

"H-h-here, let-let me help," he had said, stumbling forward, hand reaching out.

She had clawed him, sending him tumbling back onto his butt with a forearm now bleeding. Tears had welled up and Tim had wondered what he'd done wrong.

"I-I'm sorry," he'd whispered out, eyes clenched shut and trying to handle the pain.

The girl had gone very still, the aggression bleeding from her so that she was like an uncanny still life picture. The sea green eyes had watched him in consideration. Tim had opened his own, ones now filled with tears and looking in betrayal at the girl he'd tried to help.

"I hurt you."

Tim had said nothing in response, now a little scared of the girl.

"Would you help me? I won't hurt you anymore."

Tim had hesitated before carefully moving forward. With deft, clever hands he'd removed the pin from the trap and the maw of it fell open, freeing the girl. She had jumped up, gambolling about, looking more like a fox roving through the ferns and trunks.

She had disappeared and Tim was left alone in the dark, moon casting down meagre light. The loneliness and abandonment had hit him hard.

"Boy!"

She had popped up, suddenly and as if from nowhere. She had eyed Tim's tear stained cheeks and red, puffy eyes with a keen curiosity.

"I know what I'll do," she had declared, seating herself next to Tim with her legs crossed.

She had reached forward, gently smoothing a small hand down his temple in an uncharacteristic gentleness. For one moment, she had appeared to be ages old, something which had grown with the trees and the grandparents of the trees, something far older than anything Tim had seen before.

"One wish."

Then she had pulled away, giggling.

Tim let his head fall forward as the carolers finally passed. The water ran in turbid currents below him, concrete raising him up and above it. The lights were reflected in it, murky mirrors of the warmth and life.

One wish.

He knew what Gibbs would wish for. Strangely enough it was his boss he had figured out the best when it came to this. The family briefly, but tragically, mentioned in his file was a surety. Tony would probably want girls and booze and eternal distraction from life and age. Probably. Abby would wish for something good, something which would change the whole world in an unexpected but necessary way, or for something so simple it would confound people. He could imagine the sparkle in her eyes as she did so and a wistful smile pulled across his face.

And Kate, maybe she'd wish for a perfect boyfriend, a companion less confusing and annoying than Tony. But Kate was dead.

Tim didn't know why he was remembering that time, over ten years ago in a woods he scarcely recalled. Until this moment he hadn't ever thought of it, pushing away the memories of being found by police, scooped up in blankets and returned to his terrified and angry parents. Their hugs had been intense, honest, but too short. You can't scare someone into changing.

There was little lingering affection after that. He would soon grow into a masquerade of a man.

Finally Tim pulled his hands away from the metal railing, shoving them deep into his pockets and relishing the immediate burn as his skin experienced a sudden temperature change.

Kate should be here. If anyone on his team should be gone, it should be him. She should be humming 'We Wish You a Merry Christmas' while Tony chanted his own invented playboy rhymes to accompany it, Gibbs stepping into the office with a rare smile. Happiness could be had with Tim's desk empty and Kate's desk filled.

Tim knew Gibbs missed Kate, would never forgive himself for her death, he knew Tony had been close with Kate, much closer than he'd ever been with Tim. Those were just his closest co-workers. Tim wasn't bad, decent at most things, always awkward, but even with his parents he'd been a strange substitute, one which was kept until their second child arrived. It was a recurring theme in his life.

The seagreen eyes came back to mind, slanted and considering.

"One wish," muttered Tim.

Looking back down at the river he tilted his head and murmured the words again.

"I wish I could have died instead of Kate."

There was a moment of immobility, the cheery sounds behind him muted. Then he thought he heard a high and familiar laugh. He turned, expecting to see the lithe white limbed figure of distant memory. Nothing was there.

A moment passed. The world turned black.


	2. Chapter 2

When Tim awoke it was to his apartment. He frowned, a migraine pounding through his head. He struggled to remember what had happened. He didn't recall coming home, or doing his daily ritual to get ready for bed. In fact, the last thing he remembered was being by the river and thinking about a memory, one of a girl and of woods. Tim blinked sluggishly. He felt like he was forgetting something.

He began to prepare for the day, showering, dressing, brushing his teeth and eating breakfast. He looked at his phone and saw the date.

It was the day before Kate died. Tim's mind went blank.

Kate was alive. Without any forethought he dialled her number. She answered, confused and annoyed. Tim could say nothing, stammering out a good morning and promising to bring her breakfast.

He ended his phone call in a strange state of mind. He knew what would happen in the next forty eight hours, knew exactly what occurred on the rooftop. If he did things right, he could save Kate.

Within minutes he was dressed and driving to work. When he arrived, the rest of his team was absent. He knew how today would go, a call would come in for two dead sailors in a car, shot, their deaths looking like a professional hit. They would investigate, Jimmy would get lost with Ducky (saving their lives), and the car bomb would almost lay claim to Tony's.

Tim knew exactly everything because he'd spent many hours and days going back over the case, wondering what he could have done better. Now, that didn't matter. He just needed to make sure that Kate survived.

McGee forgot about his conversation with Kate though, not instigating it as he had the time before. It was Kate who started, asking about Tony. They end up joking and then Kate told him about the gay thing. It didn't make him mad like it had last time, it still hurt though. Not everybody was okay with that kind of thing and he'd received a lot of backlash from people downstairs.

Then Tony showed up, followed quickly by Gibbs who tossed the keys to Tim.

The crime scene was exactly how Tim remembered it, the car parked off the side of the road and down the slope. He just wanted to scream bomb now and keep everyone from even coming close to the danger, but without having some reasoning, it seemed impractical.

So he waited until Tony was on the ground, the corn snake gone, and the keys safely in his hand. Unlike last time, he didn't try to open the trunk. Like last time, Tony noticed the bomb. This time though, Tony was safer, sprinting with them away from the car.

The explosion still rocked all of them.

Back at NCIS they tried to solve the mystery of the stolen hands, the car bomb, the threat against their team. Of course it was Ari, but Tim was the only one privy to that information.

And then Gibbs left, and Fornell told them about the threat. Gibbs showed back up, casually informing them that Ari had tried to blow him up, along with a quantity of innocent civilians at that cafe.

That night, all four of them stayed in the office. Unlike the time before, Tim found that he couldn't sleep. He had finished his work, already knowing exactly what to look for, but the next day scared him.

He didn't know how he had ended up here, with this second chance. He certainly wasn't going to waste it. The wish came to mind, him standing at that river. That had been six months later, summer gone and winter replacing everything. They had caught Ari by then, made him suffer. But the loss of Kate hadn't just gone away.

He'd wished to die instead of Kate. This was a little different than what he'd had in mind, but despite being alive and being given this opportunity his gut told him that someone was going to die tomorrow.

Bringing his personal email up, he typed out a long letter to his sister. He attempted something to his mother, but gave up. They hadn't really seen eye to eye for quite some time, she would forget his death much like she'd forgotten many things about him. The email to his grandmother was a bit more difficult.

Then he tried to write something to his father. They hadn't spoken in a while, not since Admiral John McGee had heard that Tim had entered FLETC. If his son was at least not entering the Navy, then he was supposed to join a corporation and become very rich. NCIS had appeared to him as a waste of money and skills. Not that he'd paid for his son's education, Tim had earned his place there by scholarship and two part time jobs.

"Get some rest, McGee."

Tim's head snapped up and he looked at Gibbs. His boss almost looked worried, a tenderness in his gaze that McGee was not used to. Tim nodded his head and Gibbs turned away.

Tim watched his boss check on each of his agents, even pulling Kate's jacket up and around her so that she would sleep warmly. It reminded him of what would happen tomorrow, their loss and the pain. Gibbs turned around and when he saw that Tim was still awake he walked over.

"Sleep, Tim."

Gibbs had never called him by his first name before.

"Yes, Boss," whispered Tim in response.

Tim turned his computer screen off and let his gaze wander the scene of the empty bullpen. He saw his coworkers and friends, safe and sound. A minute later he was asleep.

* * *

The next morning was a whirlwind, them learning of the missing drone that had been kept over from the 70's, figuring out Ari's target. By the time they arrived at the warehouses, Tim had almost forgotten about what would happen.

They piled out of the car, Tim already starting on jamming the three frequencies. Gibbs barely spared him a glance at where he'd knelt on the ground with the computer, this time safely situated away from the shooter he knew would appear at some point.

"Boss, these warehouses are huge, it'll take hours to search them all."

Gibbs stoic response was the same as before, firing the shotgun before then leveling it at the first man to appear. His aim was impeccable as before. Tim barely heard them, determined to get the drone offline this time before anything could happen. He still hadn't figured out how he was going to save Kate, but he knew that this time he would.

He was prepared for the gunshots this time, the computer living through the process, and him only having to duck his head. He needed to shoot back at some point, but not before he'd gotten his job done. Two frequencies were down. A bullet pinged near his head, punching into the car.

The last frequency was out.

"It's down Boss," he informed his comm.

Another bullet pinged, and he drew his gun out. Firing a few shots, he was sure he had once again hit the man who'd been aiming for him.

"Guys, there's a sniper. Hit the ground or one of you is going to get shot."

There was no answer on the comm, but unlike last time he didn't hear the heavy crack of a sniper rifle firing. Tim knew that this was just part of the battle. Standing up, he prepared to head toward the roof, intent on seeing that his entire team lived.

"I'll-"

Something hit him, hard. The next second he heard the sound of a sniper rifle firing. Tim stumbled to his knees, eyes wandering down in a daze to where blood was soaking into his NCIS jacket. He blinked, a little fuddled, body threatening to shut down. His analytical mind, the one which had earned him a degree in bio-engineering and had taken plenty of human anatomy classes gently reminded him of gastric perforations, GSWs, damage to vascular structures.

He barely heard Gibbs screaming through the comms. Pain hit him hard. Stomach acid was no doubt seeping into his abdominal cavity, hydrochloric acid wreaking havoc on his body. He fell back against the police car.

"I-I m-mess'd 'p, B'ss," stuttered Tim, words fumbling out of his mouth, vowels and consonants dropped.

Tim's hand, shaking, brushed against the entry area of the bullet. It would've hit his stomach, probably small intestines as well. His body wasn't working like it should, trembling and failing to help him to his feet. Was Kate okay?

Everything however was a blur to him, everything outside the nice red color of his blood and the pain in his body. Blood was climbing up his throat as he tried to breathe, esophagus burning.

A figure appeared, a hand on his face which pushed his head up. He recognized his boss. Gibbs looked upset. Maybe, maybe Tim had done something wrong to provoke that, he didn't remember now. His eyes fluttered.

"No! Open your goddamned eyes Agent McGee!"

These were the first words to come through, the previous ones having sounded through a mute filter. Tim forced his lids up, terrified of facing his boss' disappointment if he couldn't manage this one small task.

He tried to say sorry, but the blood and the pain only created a horrible sounding gargle. Gibbs looked really upset. Tim wanted to apologize again. His eyes drifted, struggling to focus. He saw Tony, kneeling to his left, opposite of his boss, and looking pale. He'd taken hold of Tim's sleeve. He must still be sick from that plague. Tim tried to say 'sorry' again and it came out a little more clearly.

Kate was standing near his feet, a phone pressed against her ear, one hand shaking so bad she held it out in front of her as if that would keep her away from it spreading its sickness. Tim felt a hand on his head, petting his hair back. It felt nice, reminded him of his mee-maw Penny, of his mother when he was five, gently reading a story book, and even of his daddy, him younger still and sitting on a lap wrapped up in safety.

Someone was whispering to him, words of reassurance. They were holding him too, an arm wedged behind his back which pulled his face into a chest, his dying body slumped against it. It smelled like pinewood sawdust and something strong and pungent that reminded him of resin, there was even a hint of coffee.

"You're gonna be okay Tim, I got ya, nothing to be sorry about."

The words were rushed, continuous, just like that. Tim blinked, eyes taking in the scene of the aisles leading straight through the warehouses. He caught a glimpse of pale skin and a white lily dress, a bare foot disappearing around the corner. A giggle echoed in his mind before everything slipped away.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: It doesn't seem it, but the story isn't a Death story.

* * *

Tim didn't think he'd wake up, that isn't usually what happens with dying, as far as he was aware at least. But he did. It was in the morgue, not the most inviting of places to open your eyes to, but it wasn't the worst. He wasn't in his body anymore, he knew because he could see it on a metal slab. Ducky was staring at it, lips pursed and hands at his sides. His head was slightly tilted and he looked sad.

"Oh Timothy."

The words were more emotional than Tim had anticipated. He admired Ducky greatly, and looked to the older man for some form of acknowledgement, much like how he looked to Gibbs. Tim however had never believed that Ducky thought much of him, he had always had the feeling that he tried the poor doctor's patience, what with his interest in newfangled tech and Ducky's own love of the past.

Ducky grabbed a scalpel, lifting it gracefully. He hesitated though and the tool was lowered.

"You were a dear, smart boy, if I may be sentimental. You did not deserve this."

Tim was struck with emotion as Ducky placed a gloved hand on the corpse's head, brushing the hair gently with an air of paternal care.

The moment lasted briefly before the scalpel was raised again.

Then Ducky began the autopsy. For some reason it didn't bother Tim, not like he thought it would. Watching his chest cracked open, skin peeled back, and everything taken note of with precision was strangely cathartic. Maybe it was because it wasn't Kate on that slab.

Ducky performed the autopsy alone, well, physically at least. Tim sat as some transparent perspective on an empty bit of air, watching and thinking.

This wasn't what he'd had in mind for an afterlife, and for now he was content not to consider what came next.

He didn't anticipate Gibbs walking into the room.

"The cause of death was exsanguination, his aorta was nicked. No ambulance could have arrived in time to save him."

"He shouldn't have died, Ducky."

Gibbs was angry. Ducky did not raise to the anger, merely staying subdued with grief. The doctor continued his work.

"He didn't suffer as long as he could have."

As if that were some sort of reassurance.

Tim watched as Gibbs threatened to fall apart, and he wondered when he'd become that important to his boss. He'd imagined it would be easier with him, less jarring than with Kate dying. He wasn't an integral member of the team, the newest addition and more often than not a bumbling and awkwardly social man. If anything, he was there for his computer skills and extraordinary ability to act as a verbal racquetball court for insults and underhanded comments.

A bit unfair he realized, a projection of his own emotions, own self-doubts and insecurities. This wasn't high school, or college, or some science club. It was a job, and Tim wasn't meant to go looking for the means to his emotional needs in an environment meant to be strictly professional.

But here was Gibbs, trying to keep himself from imploding, and here was Ducky, shoulders weighed down a little further by grief, and here was Tim, a ghost sitting on their shoulders and looking down on the messy resolution of his rather short and uninspiring life.

Gibbs walked out, Ducky sighed and continued the autopsy. The effort didn't last though, and soon Ducky was setting his tools down, stripping his gloves off and flicking the lights off.

Tim sat for a while in the dark, trying to come to terms with something.

* * *

Tim moved to the bullpen after that, finding that he could travel through solid objects like doors if he so chose. He settled in at his own desk, a little touched to see the black carnations stuck in a little mason jar right next to his computer. They proclaimed an eternal love from Abby, the note littered with grinning skulls and smudged by the tears of the goth girl.

During the day, he watched his teammates work, one of them almost always busy at their desk. They were working to find Ari. During the night, Tim went to the roof of NCIS and watched the nearby traffic, sometimes even the sky where the stars were invisible because they were outshone by light pollution.

His team made the same progress as the first time around, Kate's presence not seeming to make much of a difference, while Tim's absence only slowed them down a bit.

When Ari was finally caught and killed, no one seemed relieved. It had been less than a week since Tim's death.

Kate slapped her badge and gun on Gibbs' desk. No one could question her as she exited the NCIS building for the last time.

For the first time since his wish on the bridge, Tim wondered if he'd done the right thing. He spent a lonely night on the roof and watched the sunrise. It was a Saturday and he realized that he couldn't spend the rest of eternity watching his friends pass their lives in an office building. He needed to see them more than that, to make sure they were okay, then maybe he would move on.

So he pictured one of them and thought of travelling there.

* * *

Kate's apartment was a nice little place. It was spick and span, decorated in a chic fashion but with an element of plainness which showed no personality. Tim had never stepped foot in it before. Now he was standing in the middle of the front room.

He heard footsteps and he turned. Kate was standing in her small hallway, no makeup on, hair pulled back in a messy ponytail and wearing sweats and a t-shirt. She seemed to be looking right at Tim.

"I'm supposed to be dead."

Tim blinked.

"I thought I was supposed to say that," he replied.

Kate smiled, but it was bitter.

"I see it when I got to sleep, me, on the ground, a bullet right square in my forehead. I even smell sawdust."

She chuckled mirthlessly.

"It's not your fault," protested Tim, feeling like he was supposed to be giving her some sort of comfort.

Kate's lip quivered and she shook her head, stepping past him to settle herself on her couch. Tim frowned, looked at himself and saw a bloodstained NCIS jacket and a little red stream dried against his mouth. Oh.

"You're supposed to go away if I ignore you."

Tim shifted, unsure of how this was supposed to go. He glanced down once more and saw that he looked the same as he had when he'd seen his body first brought into autopsy: very, very dead.

He walked hesitantly into the front room, following her. She'd turned her T.V. on and a soap opera was playing. Tim watched her stare at the screen, jaw clenched and tears brimming in her eyes.

"C-can you just go away?"

Tim nodded his head.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, starting to back away.

Maybe this hadn't been such a good idea. Kate hunched over a little and pressed her face into her hands.

Tim left, thinking of the river once again.

* * *

The river was nicer now, not so chilly and in the late morning Tim could see the birds in the trees and a loon floating down below on the water.

He stayed there, wishing he would just go away, move on or whatever it was ghosts did. Would he be cursed to stay like this forever? To go on and on as an invisible being? The thought terrified him and he tried to distract himself by thinking of places he could go.

Visiting Gibbs just seemed too daunting of a task. Besides, what comfort could his apparition self give? Tony would probably be out doing things, definitely not needing a ghost to show up and ruin whatever date he was on. Which logically, to Tim at least, left Abby. Due to her night time activities she always woke up a little later, and it was nearly afternoon so that meant she'd still be home.

Tim thought of Abby and left the riverfront.


	4. Chapter 4

Appearing to Abby as a cat came as a surprise to him. He'd always thought that if he was going to be an animal he'd be a dog: loyal, excited, and puppy like in his adoration of her. Instead he was a ginger tabby cat. It took only a few minutes of sitting at her balcony sliding glass door for her to spot him and throw it open. She was dressed in boxer shorts and a tank top, skull themed as most of her clothes were wont to be.

"Hey there little guy," she cooed, just an edge of grief in her eyes and tone for Tim to notice.

He hated seeing Abby sad. If she hurt, he hurt. Padding forward he nudged his head against her hand and let out a plaintive meow. He meant to say 'don't be sad, I'm not worth it'. Instead Abby sniffed, reaching out to scratch him between the ears.

"Bet you're hungry, huh mister," her voice hitched, but she was already turning away.

Tim waited patiently at the threshold, watching as she stepped through her front room and headed for her kitchen. A few minutes later she was returning, a small bowl of cubed tuna in hand.

She set it down and looked expectantly at him. Tim sniffed it and his stomach turned at the thought of eating the raw fish. Sushi had never been his thing. It did prove though, once again, that Abby loved animals at a whole other level.

Tim looked up at Abby and saw her face. Well, he _was_ dead. He nibbled at a corner of the piece of fish. Abby let out a long 'awww' and Tim looked up to see her beaming at him. It had definitely been worth it.

"Do you wanna hang out for a while, little guy?" asked Abby.

Tim looked at his friend before his eyes wandered the room. Having grown used to the goth decor a long time ago, Tim knew what was normal for Abby. Despite her eccentric tastes, Abby usually kept her apartment clean and organized. The place was now cluttered, a few pieces of clothing draped over the couch, dishes on the coffee table. It seemed that Abigail Sciuto was falling apart.

Tim stepped up to her and rubbed his head against her leg. He peered up and saw that she was smiling, this time with a little bit less grief. She scratched his ears, a strangely pleasant sensation as a cat, and then sat down. Tim hopped up onto the couch and planted himself on her lap. This seemed to also please Abby as her smile lifted once again.

They sat for a few minutes, Tim glad to know that he was helping at least one of his friends.

He looked up and saw that Abby was looking at him curiously.

"You have such green eyes, they-" she stopped short, a strange expression crossing her face, "they make me think of my best friend. You don't know him but he was pretty awesome."

She blinked rapidly and then lifted her head. Tim waited until she was ready.

"He-he was a really, really, really good guy. He wasn't supposed to die. His name was Timothy."

She paused in her scratching and Tim let out a reflexive 'meow'. She looked down at him, chuckling.

"Alright, alright, I'm scratching, I'm scratching."

Tim felt his chest vibrate and realized that he was purring.

"You know, you kind of make me think of him. In fact, I just had a brilliant idea! I'm going to name you Tim!"

Abby settled back and grabbed her remote.

"I'll show you his favorite show, I bet he'd like that!"

Tim would have smiled if he could have, glad to see that his friend had gotten back a little of herself.

* * *

Jethro Leroy Gibbs stared down at the file in his hand, the creamy yellow folder opened up to reveal the photo of a smiling, and ever so earnest looking, Agent Timothy McGee. He'd had to call his agent's parents. He hadn't been able to get through, Admiral McGee in Okinawa and his now ex-wife, Timothy's biological mother, Gloria Weinhart having relocated to Canada with no known address or phone number.

Jethro took in the impressive credentials and his jaw tightened a little. He'd initially picked Tim for his skills, but he'd kept him around for his stalwart character; maybe a little naif, sometimes painfully boyish, but someone who hadn't deserved to die.

It had been a week now. Ari had been caught two days ago, a bullet put through his head courtesy of Ziva David. Jenny, the new director, had practically ordered him to take another week off to pretend to comb some cold cases and to just mourn. That and Tim's funeral needed to be arranged and the people supposed to be doing it -his parents- weren't making it easy.

Jethro grabbed his desk phone and punched in the numbers and the connecting line. He was put through to the Admiral's secretary.

"_This is Admiral McGee's secretary speaking, he's not available right now."_

"This is Special Agent Gibbs, I'm sure you remember me because I was the one who called before, I happened to mention the fact that the Admiral's son died. That he was killed in the line of duty protecting his country from terrorists."

There was an awkward pause.

"_Oh, yes."_

There was silence.

"And you don't think that's important?" snarled Jethro.

He'd tried to call several times before this, none of his efforts successful. He was always told to call back when the Admiral would have time.

"_Well, the thing is, Admiral McGee is quite busy and he's asked me to push all personal calls and matters until the end of the month, maybe even later."_

"That's not for a month, it's June second."

"_There's a conference he's involved in that's really important and-"_

"His son, is dead."

There was awful silence again. Jethro felt like punching something.

"_I'm sorry sir."_

And the horrible thing about it was that she really did sound sorry. Jethro slammed the receiver back down and sat back in his chair. He looked at the photo of his agent, his dead agent. What the hell was wrong with McGee's parents? There had to be someone, someone who cared. He knew about McGee's sister, but she was in England through a study abroad program and wouldn't be here until next week. Besides, she was nineteen, a sophomore in college, and just by those facts not equipped to handle planning a funeral. She shouldn't even have to.

That left one family member left, a Penelope Langston who had been in jail on a small charge having to do with picketing. She was probably out by now, and according to the file she was Tim's paternal grandmother.

Jethro dialled her number. She answered. She was in Arkansas but promised to be in D.C. within five hours. Jethro hung up. He looked to the file again and felt his gut tumble with anger and a strange sense that something in the universe was wrong. Tim smiled up from the paper and Jethro couldn't take it, carefully shutting the file.

* * *

Penelope Langston was an interesting woman, if she'd been a red-head and they'd met in a bar Jethro probably would have attempted to romance her, or at least get her name. They weren't in a bar though, they were at the NCIS building and Jethro was having to quietly explain to her why she would never see her grandson again.

She didn't cry, but her eyes were heavy with grief.

"Did he suffer?" she asked.

Jethro felt the question hit him like a train. He had held Tim, felt his agent's body wrack with tremors, had looked at the wound and known that there wasn't any hope. A terrified and pained gaze had barely held his and Tim had used his last words to apologize.

"Not for long."

She cast her eyes away and leaned forward, elbows on her knees and her slender fingers clasped together. Those were McGee's fingers, both sets probably used with the same grace thought definitely not for the same things.

"He was such a good boy," she said quietly, staring off.

"Used to help me with everything. Shoulda seen him with his sister too, when his parents had their problems, he was the one picking things up for that girl. He had a big heart."

Jethro felt like there was nothing he could say, not to make what had happened any better, and he doubted Mrs. Langston would care for trite condolences, no matter how sincere.

She sat up, looking for something. She grabbed her purse and rummaged in it for a few moments. She came up with a wallet and then a photo. She held it out for Jethro.

"I want you to see that. You look like a good man, and I want you to know that Timothy held you in high respect. He was always afraid of just being one thing, so I want you to know him how I did."

Jethro took the photo and held it up. It was of a young boy, five or six, obviously McGee. He was dressed in a polo shirt, hair combed back and a shy, tentative smile on his face, one which had lasted until adulthood.

"He deserves that," she said.

Jethro stared at the picture for a good minute before he handed it back. Penelope Langston stood, gathered her things and began to escort herself from the building. Jethro followed, staying right behind her.

She entered the elevator and he met her gaze.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly.

She tilted her head.

"I'm sorry too."

There was a ding and the doors slid shut.


	5. Chapter 5

Tim wasn't sure what he looked like when he traveled, zooming across the barren sky as some sort of invisible ghost. His speed was quick, the passage of time irrelevant. He could go anywhere, but arriving somewhere he stayed as a floating, immaterial object with only the ability to watch. He was merely perspective, nothing else. The only places he arrived at as something tangible were Gibbs', Abby's, Kate's and Tony's.

Going to Tony's had been a surprise. Of everything he thought he might materialize as, a bird had never come to mind. In fact, he was a little starling, plump, small and plain.

Strangely enough, Tony kept a bird feeder on the back porch area of his apartment.

The first day he came, Tony was sitting down, staring up at the sky in his wicker chair. He appeared calm and for some reason so much older than Tim would ever have imagined. Tim sat past other birds coming and going, content to watch his friend.

"C'mon fatty, it's not poisoned."

Tim flinched, hopping nervously along the rim of the bird feeder. Tony was looking right at him and it was obvious that he was the one Tony was addressing. Tim primly took up one of the seeds, gulping it down.

Tony grinned.

"There you go, buddy."

Tim quirked his head again and this got a laugh from Tony. To Tim this was totally foreign. He'd never imagined his co-worker like this, relaxed and not thinking about food or girls.

He'd had a few strange moments with Tony, a day after his death and in the morgue. Tony had come down and opened the slab with Tim's body in it and had just started talking like it was another day in the office. At the end, he'd claimed that he didn't want his 'Probie' to be lonely. He'd cried as well.

It had hit Tim hard. Tony was difficult for him to read, and more often than not he felt that the other man only liked harassing him. After Kate had died, he'd always thought that Tony had wished it'd been Tim on the slab, that it had been Tim who'd died. Tim had understood, Kate was wonderful, Tony had known her longer, and, well, even Tim had believed that if anybody had deserved to die out of their team it would have been himself.

Tony wasn't supposed to cry, he wasn't supposed to visit Tim's body and have conversations with him so he wouldn't get lonely, he wasn't supposed to sit in a wicker chair watching birds eat. He wasn't supposed to care.

* * *

Jethro didn't enjoy Tim's funeral. Penelope Langston and Sarah McGee were the only two family members, aside from a distant cousin, to attend. The rest were friends and co-workers. He had paused at Tim's coffin and all he had felt was that everything was wrong, something unfinished, something not right.

He had admonished himself. Of course nothing was right, Timothy McGee was dead and at the least the man should've had his parents there, should've been lauded for his efforts. Instead he was nearly forgotten, even the damned paperwork for the federally funded funeral getting misplaced.

Tony had been dead silent. Abby had bawled the entire service. Kate had shown up and made her best efforts to avoid all of them. She'd transferred to the NCIS location in L.A. after quitting with them.

Jethro was now sitting at his house dressed in casual clothing and holding a beer in his hand. He turned his head and saw a boy.

He was instantly recognizable. It was Timothy McGee, age six (confirmed by Penelope) and dressed just like how he'd been from the picture. Jethro stared. He'd seen McGee before, glimpses of his figure peering over Tony's shoulder or sitting in a melancholy position at his desk. He'd always appeared with blood trailing down his mouth and a bullet hole in his stomach. He'd never spoken before.

Now Tim appeared as a six year old, no doubt conjured by Jethro's mind after seeing Mrs. Langston's photo.

He couldn't do this, not now, so he headed down and into his basement. He almost hoped the hallucination would just leave and let him handle an average dosage of guilt. But it wasn't to be, the soft sounds of little feet coming down the steps and then almost tripping.

Jethro recalled that Kelly had also tripped on that very step.

It seemed guilt was going to come a' knocking whether he wanted it to or not, so he addressed his hallucination. It spoke a little, but there was no blame thrown, just a sad little confession and then sleep.

Jethro had carried the child back up the steps and laid Tim on the couch. He wondered at the extraordinary sensory ability of his hallucinating and settled in his chair to watch the boy sleep. He entered unconsciousness himself.

* * *

Tim put off visiting Gibbs, scared of what he would see when he came face to face with the man. Gibbs always had come off as so aloof. He was a demanding, severe person, difficult to read, and for Tim, too much like his father for him to feel comfortable. He had always felt like he had something to prove to the man, and that it was something he would never be able to do, that he would never be good enough for the ex-marine.

But it had to be done. He could feel it, that he was supposed to visit Gibbs. So he did.

Landing on the doorstep, Tim was puzzled to find that no tangible form had yet been taken. He was still some ephemeral spirit. So he went through the door.

What he appeared as took him by surprise. It was himself, at six years old, dressed in a stiff polo t-shirt with sneakers and jeans, his hair combed back how his mother liked. Tim immediately felt like he shouldn't be here, not like this, a disappointment to his boss.

Then Gibbs was there, a beer in his hand, and his outfit casual. He froze, staring at Tim. Tim shifted on his feet, unable to watch as Gibbs' eyes measured him and deemed him unfit. However, that wasn't what happened.

Gibbs stared blankly for a minute before turning away. Tim was shocked. Maybe Gibbs couldn't see him. So he trotted after, curious. Gibbs headed for his basement.

Tim had heard about it, the basement, a hallowed place which few entered. It was where Gibbs went to be, at least that was according to Tony. Tim went down a few steps, stopping to stare in bewilderment at the many tools and the beautiful skeleton of a sailboat.

"You can come down, kid."

Tim jumped, not expecting the sudden voice. Gibbs was looking at him, face inscrutable as ever but not unwelcoming. Tim hurried down the steps, tripping on the last one and almost face planting. He caught himself at the last second. He blushed a deep red as he saw his boss' gaze leveled on him. Even dead he was still screwing up.

Tim watched Gibbs start working. The man appeared to be in the process of sanding down the ribs of the boat. It was quiet for a while but Tim's curiosity got the better of him.

"What happens when you're done sanding?" he piped up.

Gibbs paused to look over at Tim. Tim shrunk into himself, wishing he hadn't spoken. Gibbs however wasn't angry.

"I'll strip plank it and seal it with epoxy."

Tim tilted his head, but he kept his mouth shut, not wanting to say something stupid. Gibbs continued working. Time passed and Tim started to doze, confused by the little body he was in. He was half asleep when something landed on him.

He snapped awake, afraid for a moment, until he felt the new warmth, fingers brushing against the fiber of Gibbs' jacket. He could smell the pinewood, resin and black coffee which had all seeped their scents into the cloth. The man himself was already back at work. Tim relaxed against the steps, but his eyes stayed open.

"I don't like boats," he said.

As soon as it was out of his mouth he flushed with embarrassment and ducked his head under the jacket. That had been a stupid thing to say. When Gibbs said nothing in response, Tim felt like he needed to say more.

"I-I mean, I like them, I just don't like riding on them, the-they make me sick."

He was stuttering again. Tim clenched his eyes shut. He wasn't the Probie anymore, this wasn't his father, he was dead, literally nothing could hurt him now. It didn't feel like that though.

Tim watched Gibbs hands run the sandpaper up and down a beam, the motes of dust illuminated by the single hanging light bulb.

"I was supposed to like boats though, and ships. I didn't mean to be sick on them. I wanted to like them."

Tim fell silent, a melancholy washing over him. He rested his head on the steps, wondering why he was here, why he couldn't just move on. He drifted off into semi-conscious rest, the first of any kind that he'd experienced since dying.

Someone lifted him, hands that were firm but careful, cradling him close. He thought of John McGee, his disappointment, of sitting on his lap at five and wondering about the world. Tim opened his eyes, almost expecting his father to be there, getting ready to put him to bed. It was Gibbs, face weighed with sorrow, unnerving blue eyes watching him.

"You're safe now."

With that promise, Tim fell asleep.

* * *

He woke up in the woods.


End file.
